


All The Happy Couples Holding Hands

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Non-Explicit, One Shot, Other, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer is going to a city he does not know to stay in a house he does not know with someone he hopes is his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Happy Couples Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettykitty_aya (words_unravel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/gifts).



> My portrayal of Breezy and the children is entirely fictionalized. I don't know nor do I claim to know them. I wrote this with fondness and mean no disrespect. Written for / inspired by [prettykitty_aya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/pseuds/prettykitty_aya).

Spencer is going to a city he does not know to stay in a house he does not know with someone he hopes is his friend. Two weeks ago Dallon called and invited him to come and visit, maybe play a couple of shows. The call is not entirely unexpected. They've talked about it before. Spencer doesn't have to think long before he says yes. Life in Los Angeles is monotonous: Brendon and Sarah are finally (finally!) getting married, and wedding preparations are in full swing. Spencer's been keeping himself busy, but he's a little restless. He is looking for a change, maybe. He's looking for something, anyway.

As he boards his flight some unhappy feeling roosts in his stomach. He's not worried about Brendon -- he and Sarah are obnoxiously in love and the marriage is overdue. Spencer loves them both, and he is happy for them. He's not worried that Brendon's pissed that he's going to play a few shows with Dallon, because Brendon's not jealous like that. They are secure in what they have together. He's not even worried that it's going to be weird spending a week at Dallon's place, because he likes Dallon and he likes his family and they've always gotten along great.

It's just that sometimes he feels like his life is this terrible continuous series of interminable trips with no destination traveled on an over-crowded bus with a broken air conditioner. That's what it felt like as he sat in an uncomfortable chair in a fancy department store and read and re-read the same messages on his cell phone while Brendon was measured for his tuxedo. He should have felt honored; he's the best man, and Brendon wanted him to be there. He should have paid attention because Brendon is his best friend, but he hasn't been sleeping well and he was tired and the saleswoman had a grating, awful laugh that made him want to punch her in the face.

Salt Lake City spreads out beneath him like a scale model, all miniature houses and thread-thin roads. It reminds him of Las Vegas in a way he doesn't like. He doesn't think about home that much any more, not since the twins went to college. There's not really any reason to: there aren't any possibilities left there, just memories, too many of them bad. He still owns the house he bought there, the house he thought he and Haley would live in together, the house he thought they'd start a family in. He still owns it because the market is bad and it makes more sense to rent it out than it does to sell at a loss. He still owns it but he hasn't spent a single night there since Haley packed her things and left him. He thinks about that house only rarely, and when he does it is not with any fondness. When the 'buckle seat belt' sign comes on, Spencer closes his eyes. He keeps them closed through the landing.

Dallon is waiting for Spencer at the baggage claim, his daughter on his hip and all his hair standing up straight. He pulls Spencer into a tight, one-armed hug.

"You really didn't have to pick me up," Spencer says.

"And miss out on a single second of buddy time? I don't think so." Dallon grins wide and Amelie giggles, delighted.

Spencer smiles too, despite himself.

They jam that night in Dallon's tiny practice space and then watch videos on youtube until it's bedtime. Breezy floats around in the background, making sure that Spencer's comfortable, that he's not wanting for anything, that he doesn't need another blanket or pillow. Her attention is a little overwhelming. She's as tall as Spencer and dresses like a devious mid-century pin-up model. He's met her a few times before, but he doesn't really know her well.

She presses a kiss to the top of his head as she says goodnight. Spencer's glad that she has turned out the light, because he flushes bright red.

Dallon has to work during the day. It makes Spencer feel like the biggest, most entitled jerk in the world to lounge around in his pajamas while Dallon gets dressed and trudges off to his construction job. Breezy is busy getting Amelie ready for pre-school and trying to manage the baby. Amelie cries that she wants to wear her princess out to school, her little voice shrill. Breezy is ordinarily as laid back as her name would suggest but Spencer can hear the strain in her voice. He figures he should do something to help.

"Do you want me to start breakfast?" he asks.

She smiles at him with obvious relief. "That would be a huge help," she says.

Spencer cooks scrambled eggs while Breezy gets the kids ready. He sits and helps Amelie with her food while Breezy feeds Knox, and offers to do the dishes when Breezy realizes she's running late. She gives him another grateful smile as she herds the kids out the door.

Spencer is good at keeping himself busy. After the dishes are done and drying on the rack by the sink, he changes into a pair of shorts and laces up his sneakers. He's a little stiff at first, and slow to find a comfortable pace, but it's not too hot yet and very dry, good weather for running. Dallon's neighborhood is quiet, houses spread decently far apart. Sleepy looking men and women get in their cars and drive off to work. An older woman walks her yappy little dog. It looks like a feather duster on legs and it snarls at Spencer as he jogs past.

He runs further than he intends. After the first mile he loosens up and is eager to keep moving. He started running to get in shape, expecting that every minute of it would be torture. As a kid he was far from athletic. He had no idea that it would feel so good, that it would fill him with the same buoyant energy he feels after playing a great show. It makes him feel good and it gives him time to think and he's come to look forward to it. Spencer's not a selfish person, but as he's gotten older he's learned a little more about making time for the things he likes.

When he gets back to the house he pauses in the driveway for a moment, wiping his hair out of his face. He stretches, relishing the stretch in his hamstrings and in his back. It's so much more arid here than he's used to. His tee shirt is barely damp, and there's a white film of salt dried on his skin. He didn't drink enough water. He feels a little wobbly.

Breezy is sitting at the table with the baby in her lap, watching the news. She looks up when he walks in and she smiles.

"So that's where you went," she says. "Did you have a good run?"

"Yes," Spencer says. He feels a little faint, a little too incoherent to be making conversation. He gets a glass from the cupboard and fills it at the sink. He takes a long sip.

"You're going to be stuck with me today," Breezy says, too cheerful to be apologetic. "I'll try my best to keep you entertained."

Spencer drains his glass of water. "You don't have to do that," he says. "I don't want to be an inconvenience."

Breezy laughs, a little loud. The baby looks up at her and smiles. "You're not an inconvenience," she says. "You're our guest. Dallon invited you out here. He's happy that you're here."

Spencer fills his glass again because he doesn't know what to say. They are lucky beyond reason that Dallon auditioned for them, lucky beyond all reason to have found someone who fits so perfectly on such short notice. They are grateful; they have every reason to be grateful.

"He's really helped us out," he says after a while. "We're lucky."

Breezy beams. "I know," she said, gentling untangling the baby's sticky hand from her hair. Spencer does not think he's ever known anyone who has loved another person as much as Breezy does Dallon.

They watch the news together. There's not much of note: local cops are conducting a crackdown on speeding, and a school in the area won a surprise victory against their crosstown rivals. The baby dozes and Breezy gets up to put him down for a nap. When she comes back she's changed into cut-off jeans and her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

"I know you're on vacation, but how do you feel about helping me wash the windows? I've been threatening to take away Dallon's guitar until he does it, but I figure we can cut him a break." She grins, like they're sharing some secret.

Spencer is glad to help.

He gets the ladder out of the garage while Breezy untangles the hose. The sun is higher in the sky; the day is hot. She fills a bucket with soapy water and hands it up. Spencer insists on climbing up to wash the windows; his reach is longer, anyway. Breezy braces the ladder, calling out when Spencer misses a spot. The filthy water sloshes to the ground. Spencer climbs down slowly. Breezy adjusts the spray on the hose to start rinsing. The sky is stitched with high, fine clouds. Spencer watches the sheets of water slide off the clean glass.

He is unprepared when Breezy turns the hose on him. He gasps. The cold is a shock. She laughs, eyes crinkled. He's still holding the bucket of soapy water. He retaliates, dousing her. She gives chase and he dashes around to the side yard. The hose only stretches so far. It's pulled taut and Spencer stands just beyond the reach of the spray, hands on his hips.

"That was low," he says, smiling so she knows he's just kidding.

"You should have seen your face," she says, laughing. "I thought your eyes were going to pop out of your head."

"It was cold," he says, defensively. He sounds young and a little whiny, and immediately wishes he hadn't said a word.

"Poor baby," she says, grinning and sending another spray of water in his direction.

He takes off his dripping shirt and hangs it over the railing on the porch before he goes inside. He can feel Breezy's eyes on him, appraising. It makes him want to squirm, makes him want to pull his wet tee shirt back on or cross his arms over his chest, but he doesn't. Breezy tugs up her shirt and wrings out some of the water. Her stomach is just rounded and tan. Spencer tries hard not to notice the way the wet cloth clings.

That night at dinner, Dallon asks what they did that day. Spencer glances quickly up at Breezy. She smiles prettily at her husband. "Not much, babe," she says. "Spencer helped me wash the windows."

Dallon steeples his fingers and raises his eyebrows. "Now my nefarious plan is revealed. I only brought you here to force you into unpaid labor."

"I knew you only wanted me for my body," Spencer says, feigning injury.

"You ought to be used to that, rock star," Breezy says, coy.

Spencer frowns. There's something about the way she says it -- he should be used to it? He should be used to it because he's in a band? Because he's -- ? He's saved from having to reply when Amelie knocks over her cup of juice. Dallon leaps to his feet and grabs a napkin to sop up the spill. The conversation blessedly is forgotten as Breezy tries to keep the baby quiet and Amelie sobs and purple grape juice slowly drip-drips onto the white carpet.

Spencer sleeps poorly that night. The springs in the lumpy pull-out couch dig into his back and he lays awake, puzzling. He's always been bad at interpreting this kind of attention. It's not out of the realm of possibility that Breezy is attracted to him, but the flirting doesn't make sense. She's fucking gorgeous and Dallon is too and they are so in love. It just doesn't make sense to read intention into the way she touches him softly on the shoulder, into the way her gazes lingers sometimes a moment to long, into the bright way she smiles when he makes an awful, groan-worthy joke. He wants to call Brendon or Ian or someone, just to see if his suspicion is completely ridiculous, but he can't because he knows it is ridiculous and unfounded and the second he gives it voice outside of the echo chamber of his own head he's going to look like a fool.

He wakes up after very few hours of sleep. Dallon is quietly going about his morning. A tea kettle whistles and is quickly silenced. Spencer rolls his shoulders. He is tired, but he won't be able to go back to bed. He wipes the crusts of sleep from his eyes.

"Good morning," he mumbles as he walks into the kitchen.

Dallon startles. "You just scared my socks off. Literally. Right off," he says, and he wiggles the toes on one pale, unsocked foot.

Spencer grins and slumps over the kitchen table. "I guess I'm too stealthy for you, dude."

"I always knew the band was a front for some sneaky ninja spy syndicate," Dallon says, around a mouthful of toast. "I hope one day to be worthy of receiving your wisdom, Sensei." He bows his head, and then looks up, eyes wide and teasing.

Spencer smiles. "I don't think we've got much wisdom to dispense. We practice the Tao of letting shit slide until the last possible minute."

"And clearly that's worked out so terribly for you," Dallon says, deadpan.

It's not bitterness, Spencer doesn't think. Not really. "Yeah," he says. "I guess. Uh. I guess I've been pretty lucky?"

"I would ask if you're part leprechaun, but you're not quite short enough for that," Dallon teases. He lords his height over all the rest of them.

"I'm not even Irish," Spencer says. He's dying for a cup of coffee, but the Weekes are a little weird about the whole caffeine thing -- Dallon drinks soda, sometimes, but he definitely didn't rebel against his upbringing by turning into a coffee fiend, a la Brendon.

"So what fun hi-jinks do you have planned for today?" Dallon asks.

Spencer shrugs.

"Seriously, if you're bored, just say something. You don't have to pretend. I know how boring it is. I know my neighbors are all zombies."

"It's fine," Spencer says. "Nice. Relaxing."

Dallon looks dubious. "It's not relaxing. It's awful. It's tedious. It makes me want to rip my hair out." He's manic, bristling with energy even though it's still dark outside and the crickets are still chirping eerily.

"It's fine," Spencer says. "Really. If I were bored, I'd tell you." He smiles.

Dallon looks suspicious, but he's got to go to work and has no more time to argue.

Spencer follows the red twinkling tail lights of his car as he drives away. It is early still, but the sky is growing light and there are a few people out and about: dog walkers and early risers. Spencer knows he won't go back to sleep so he stretches and tugs on his sneakers and heads out for a run. It's nice, being outside at dawn. The air is cool and sweet. He imagines what his life would be like if he were confined by the strict routine of a normal job: if he ran at the same time, drove to the same office, worked with the same people. It should seem tedious, but it's so far outside the realm of anything he's experienced that it seems quaint and comforting. He wouldn't change a thing about the way he's lived his life, but sometimes he can't help but think about how things could have gone.

Amelie does not have pre-school that day. She settles on the floor in the living room with a bowl of cereal and a pair of Barbies. The cereal dies the milk purple and her mouth is stained. The cartoons she watches are strange and unfamiliar. It seems like only a few years since the twins were the world's biggest Blue's Clues fans; Amelie makes him aware of how distant those days really are.

Breezy has to run to the store. Amelie makes a stubborn face and declares that she's not done watching television yet. Spencer sees a storm brewing, and he's glad to head it off by offering to babysit. Breezy smiles at him so gratefully that he's almost embarrassed. It's not like it's a punishment. Amelie is an adorable kid, even if she's a little bit of a hellion at times. That's not surprising, considering her parents.

Breezy bundles up the baby and shows Spencer what he can give Amelie as a snack if she's hungry. Amelie is still watching television.

"Hey Am," Spencer says. "Do you want to play a game?"

She looks up at him with round eyes. "Yes," she says seriously. "I'm playing fairies. You can be the evil fairy."

Apparently, fairy land is located in Amelie's bedroom. Someone -- from the look of it Dallon -- has drawn a beautiful, detailed fairy castle and mounted it on cardboard. This is the abode of Amelie's fairies, played by her Barbies with paper wings clipped to their clothing. Spencer's evil fairy is a plastic gorilla who lives under the dresser. The game is resumed in the middle of some elaborate and long-running plot, the details of which Spencer cannot glean. Amelie directs him with more confidence than some professionals he's he's worked with.

The good fairies have Spencer's evil fairy trapped in a shoebox when Breezy gets home. It hardly seems like an hour's passed, but Spencer's phone confirms it. Breezy struggles not to grin as she watches them. Spencer starts to get up, but Amelie protests.

"You didn't escape yet," she says, frowning.

"The evil fairy used his super secret spell to dig a hole out of the prison," Spencer says, knocking the shoebox on its side.

"Not fair!" Amelie says, but she's laughing.

Breezy laughs too.

After lunch, Amelie goes down for a nap. The baby is dozing too, and Breezy collapses on the couch.

"You are so much help," she says, tiredly. "Can I keep you forever?"

Spencer smiles, lopsided. "I do what I can."

"You're so great with Amelie," Breezy says. "You're way better than the last girl we hired to babysit."

"I used to watch my sisters all the time," Spencer says. "And sometimes I babysat for my neighbors. I've always really liked kids."

"Are you like, perfect? Seriously, how is it that you're single?"

Spencer shrugs. "It's not exactly by choice," he says, uncomfortably.

Breezy's eyes light up. "Oh really?" she says. "Because I still stay in touch with a bunch of my girlfriends from LA and I could totally set you up with someone. Believe me, you'd be doing them a favor."

"Uh, maybe," Spencer says. "I don't know. I'm not really into the whole blind date thing."

"You're no fun," Breezy says, pouting. "Dating is fun, Spence. Girls are fun."

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "They totally are. I guess I'm just not much of a dater."

It's true, really. He hasn't dated much, ever. In high school there had been nobody interested at first, and then he'd been too busy with the band. He'd met Haley almost as soon as they'd started touring, and he was with her for three years. He thought she was it. He thought he'd never have to worry about dating, after he met her. When she left him, he was dumped back into the pool of single young men completely unprepared.

"It doesn't have to be anything serious," Breezy says. "You can just go have a good time."

"I guess so," Spencer says. He closes his eyes. "I met the girl I thought I would marry when I was eighteen. I just don't think I could ever find someone like that again."

"What happened?" Breezy bites her lower lip.

Spencer closes his eyes. He's gone over this so many times with so fucking many people and it still rubs something inside his chest raw. "She just ... she didn't want to give anything up. Neither did I. I wanted to tour and she wanted to be with her family and I guess it got to the point where those two things seemed mutually exclusive."

"It's hard," Breezy says, quietly. "It's really hard. I had a career in LA before I married Dallon. I gave up a lot for him. It wasn't exactly easy. Sometimes I don't know if it was the right choice, but I love him so I have to believe it was."

"You two have something special," Spencer says. "I don't think that most people find that. I don't know if I will."

"How old are you?" Breezy asks, narrowing her eyes. "24? You're a little young to sound so defeated."

Spencer stares at a faded stain on the floor. It's been scrubbed until only just visible, but it lingers. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe."

Through the baby monitor, they hear Knox grumble, and then start to cry more loudly. Exhaustion washes over Breezy's face. As she gets up, she claps Spencer on the shoulder.

"You'll find someone," she says. "Probably when you're least expecting it. You deserve to be happy."

When Amelie wakes up she wants to ride her bike. Spencer stands in the driveway while she peddles slowly round and round. Sparkly pink and purple streamers dangle listlessly from the handlebars of her tricycle. Spencer gets a text from Brendon with a picture of the venue he and Sarah are touring that day. It's a big outdoor place that opens onto a pristine private beach. It's perfect. Spencer texts back his approval. He wonders if they'll wait before deciding to have kids. Spencer knows they want to. They've talked about it, in a very general way. Brendon is committed to the band, wants to keep making music with Spencer, wants to keep touring. That thought makes something warm swell in Spencer's chest, but he knows at the same time that family comes first. He told Brendon as much. He knows how things will play out, when push comes to shove.

That night at the practice space Dallon says, "Breezy told me she's going to try to set you up on a blind date."

"She offered," Spencer says. "But I'm going to have to pass."

"Dude, that is a wise choice, because some of her friends are scary," Dallon says. "They're sweet, but they make those girls from The Hills look like nuns."

Spencer's met that kind of girl before, in LA. He knows guys who date that kind of girl. He sees the attraction in an abstract way but he's never felt equal to the task. He's always kind of felt like his clumsy attempts at flirting might earn him nothing more than derisive laughter.

"Yeah, that's not really my speed," he says. He takes a long drink of water. They've got a pair of fans, but it's still hot. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a towel.

Dallon breathes in deeply, and then all at once says, "So this is going to be weird because there's totally no way it could not be weird and it definitely sounds like a bad fanfiction and I'm probably way off base, but you're not desperately in love with Brendon, are you?"

Spencer's eyes bug. "What?"

Dallon goes pale. "I mean, you guys are really close, and you're always hugging each other ... I thought maybe you came out here because the wedding planning was breaking your heart."

"Seriously, am I in love with Brendon? My life is not My Best Friend's Wedding." It's so ridiculous Spencer can't even be embarrassed. "He's my best friend, and I love him like a brother, but I'm not harboring any secret romantic longings for the dude."

"Sorry! I spend too much time on the internet," Dallon says. "It's rotting my brain."

"Your brain's been rotten as long as I've known you," Spencer says, grinning. He throws his sweaty towel at Dallon's head.

"Ew, ew, get it off me," Dallon shrieks. He flails his hands foolishly.

Spencer shakes his head. "Come on, dude. Let's play."

Dallon's parents watch the kids the night of the show. Spencer sits in the living room wearing a white tee shirt and dress pants while Dallon and Breezy get ready. He can hear them talking in low voices in the bathroom, can hear the occasional bright ring of Breezy's laughter, the lower rumble of Dallon's response.

He gets it, being around them. He gets how central they are to each other, how they're the entire world for each other. He wanted that with Haley, and he could have had it, but he picked the band instead.

Breezy floats out of the bathroom wearing a teal dress, her hair piled neatly on top of her head. She drops onto the couch, pressed right up against Spencer, warm and sweet smelling.

"Aren't you excited, Spence?" she asks.

"I am," he says. "Very excited."

She looks skeptical. "Sure, sure. I know how it is with you boys in bands. You think you've done everything, seen everything."

"I really am excited," he says, protesting, and he makes a silly face.

She laughs, delighted, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "You guys are going to be so fucking awesome tonight," she says, always her husband's biggest fan.

Spencer stammers something in agreement. She stands up and twirls in the center of the room, sending her skirts flying out in a wide, graceful circle. Dallon leans against the door to the bathroom, looking amused.

Spencer wonders how long he's been watching, how much he saw.

The gig is so different than anything Spencer is used to. They cart the equipment in themselves and set it up themselves and Dallon stops to talk to some of the fans that have filtered in early. He knows them form other shows. There's no security, no crew, no fucking procedure. Sometimes Spencer thinks Panic! missed something essential step, getting signed so quickly. He wonders, sometimes, if maybe a longer struggle at the beginning would have made everything that came after less torturous. If maybe they'd had to work harder they wouldn't have been so eager to give what they up what they had.

The crowd loves Dallon, and he loves them. He glows on stage. He's as much a natural front man as Brendon, if different in approach. He stands straighter on stage, seems taller and full of crackling angular energy. He laughs and glowers. There are girls, girls Spencer knows found the Brobecks because Dallon plays in Panic. He can tell by their clothing, by their youth, by the way they stand so close to the stage and gaze up at Dallon with bright eyes. He recognizes that glazed expression, even if it's rarely ever directed at him.

The air is thick and Spencer's shirt sticks to his back. Sweat flies off Dallon's hair when he shakes his head. Breezy stands side stage, looking preternatural and perfect. Spencer glances over at her as Dallon introduces the next song. She's watching him. Dallon plays the first chord of the song, and spins on his heel. He steps towards Spencer's kit, eyes wide, and then steps closer still. Spencer can see the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just grins and then lunges for the microphone.

Spencer plays so hard his hands hurt from holding his sticks.

After the show, Spencer breaks up his kit while Dallon chats with the fans. He is bright and especially charming, if the high nervous laughter Spencer hears is any indication. Breezy stands a little way off, looking at him with utter fondness in her eyes. Spencer doesn't fucking know how it can possibly fair that Dallon's this good and works this hard and he can't catch a break. It's just not fair.

They're quiet on the ride home. Dallon takes the long way and they drive out near the lake. There's nothing to see. The air blows salty and hot off the water. Breezy turns up the radio. The kids are staying with their grandparents. Spencer feels like he's interfering with something, or that something is happening that he cannot understand.

When they get to the house Spencer gets a glass of water from the sink and drops onto the couch, exhausted. He closes his eyes, even though he can hear Dallon and Breezy, taking off their coats and their shoes, moving through their familiar domestic rhythms with ease. The couch sinks as someone else sits down. Spencer opens his eyes.

Breezy is in Dallon's lap, her hands loose on his shoulders, his big hands cradling her waist. Spencer gets up without excusing himself. He shuts the bathroom door and stands in front of the mirror and stares at himself. The tiles are orange and cream and the vanity is dated. He looks tired. He almost always has bags under his eyes, and it's worse when he doesn't get enough sleep, or when he's not feeling well, or when he's anxious. His beard is a little longer than he normally wears it. His hair is flat and dull with dried sweat.

He runs the tap until the water is scalding hot and he washes his hands twice, scrubbing his nails and his palms. His wrists ache a little. He turns on the colder water and washes his face. He brushes his teeth methodically, slowly going over each tooth. He rinses and spits into the sink. He can't hear through the door, but he imagines that they're still out there, Dallon's hands moving lower, pulling Breezy towards him, her lean thighs straddling his, their dark hair mingling.

He closes his eyes. He knows he shouldn't think these things. He looks around but there's nothing else he can do in the bathroom, nothing else he can do to justify hiding.

They haven't gone to bed. Breezy's lips are pressed against Dallon's neck, but she looks over at Spencer. Her head lolls. She smiles.

"The show was great, Spence," she says.

"Thanks," he says. He brushes his hair back from his face. "It was all Dallon, though. You were fucking awesome, dude."

Dallon grins. "I accept your compliments," he says regally.

Breezy laughs and presses her face into Dallon's shoulder.

Spencer is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Dallon's mouth is pink and his cheeks are flush. He shouldn't look but -- oh god, he can see the hard nubs of Breezy's nipples through the thin green fabric of her dress. He's always kind of horny after playing a show. The energy and the adrenaline turn him on. He can't help it. He should have taken a shower, cold water turned up high. He should be able to control himself. He feels stupid and young and unable to control himself.

He just wants ... He's just always wanted something as easy as what they have, and as true.

Breezy yawns, prettily. "Time for bed," she says, and she slides off Dallon's lap. He's half-hard; Spencer can see the bulge in his tight jeans. Dallon gets to his feet, slowly.

Spencer takes a step back. "Good night," he says. "See you guys in the morning."

Breezy stops to stare at him. "Oh, no, Spence. I thought you understood."

Spencer's cheeks are red. "What?" he asks.

"You'll be lonely out here all by yourself," Breezy says. Her voice is low and honestly she sounds like the sultry vamp in some movie, but god, it's so hot. Spencer wants to listen to her murmur dirty things as he sucks on her breasts. He wants to feel her warm breath on his skin. "Our bed is big enough for three."

Spencer looks at Dallon in alarm. He's staring at the ground in front of his feet, unreadable. Spencer's not ... he's not gay, really, but he wants to run his hands up Dallon's side, wants to feel the burr of stubble on his skin. He just wants so many things he knows he can't have. "Dude, you know I wouldn't do anything ..."

"Don't be stupid," Breezy says. "It was my idea, but he didn't have any objections."

Oh. Oh.

Dallon smiles, broad and wolfish. "Remember that time I tweeted about listening to you shower? I wasn't just listening ..."

Spencer flushes, brilliant red.

"Oh, leave him alone," Breezy says. She smiles at Spencer, gentler. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. We just thought ..."

"We wanted you to feel welcome," Dallon says.

"I do," Spencer says, honestly.

"Good," Breezy says. She takes his hand in hers and leads him towards the bedroom.

\-----

In the morning sunshine pours through the clean windows. The neat lace curtains that Breezy so carefully ironed cast pretty shadows on the wooden floor. Spencer is warm and content. His arms are wrapped around Breezy's waist, just below her full breasts. Her skin is luminous and unmarked. Dallon snores at his other side, one hand just tangled in Spencer's hair. Spencer's hand has gone numb.

They both still sleep. Spencer feels like he must be asleep, because they're both so beautiful he can't stand it. He doesn't belong in the middle of this pair. He wants to squirm away and go out into the living room and fall back asleep on the couch so he can pretend this never happen.

Before he can move, Breezy stirs. One eye opens fractionally. She sees Spencer watching.

"Mmm," she says, rumbling and delicious. "Good morning."

"Morning," Spencer says quietly, going still.

She presses a kiss softly against his collarbone.

"Last night was really great," she says.

"Yeah," Spencer says. He wants to inch backwards, open up some space between them, but Dallon is right behind him, tall and solid. "Do you ... do you do that with all your house guests?"

Breezy's eyes crinkle, amused. "Only the really cute ones," she says, patting him on the cheek.

Spencer's cheeks go red. Fuck. They make him feel like he's fifteen again, in way over his head. It's just that he kind of loves it.

"Breezy, cut it out," Dallon says. His voice is rough. "You're embarrassing him."

"He's got no reason to be embarrassed," Breezy says, waggling her eyebrows. Then, more concerned, she asks, "You're not embarrassed, right?"

"No," Spencer says, quickly. "Definitely not. It was good."

"Good," Breezy says. She puts a hand on his waist and kisses him again. Dallon places his hand, darker and larger, over hers. Breezy's breath is sweet. Pulling away, she whispers, "You deserve something good. I know you'll find it."

Spencer closes his eyes and tries to believe her.


End file.
